“Holy Fuck. It’s snowing.”
Of all of them, Tarval had been the most resistant to the “it’s getting cold” idea. Although meteorology was not his primary or even his secondary skill, he had been an amateur weather-watcher on his home planet of Teyska, and had been certain the signs pointed towards a chilly but dry, mild “so-called winter.”
Besides, the trees didn’t like him, and he didn’t like them.
He had continued to do his own thing – preparing for the mild, brief cold snap he was expecting – and continued to tell everyone they were crazy for listening to trees, trees that tried to eat people, and not to the signs of the weather.
When the wind had changed direction suddenly, he’d taken it as a personal affront.
When the temperature had dropped degree after degree after degree in a few short hours, he’d joined everyone else in pulling every piece of fruit off the vines, herding the animals into the town square, and hunting and fishing a few last meat animals. “Brief cold,” he’d repeated, over and over again. But, less certainly, “no need to take unnecessary risks.”
He’d been the last one out as the temperature dropped past into the negative degrees. The animals were his purview, and he needed to be sure they were all safe.
He was fixing the halter on a gen-mod horse when the skies went from light grey to dark, and he’d just finished rigging a roof over their paddock when the stuff hit him in the face.
Everyone in the village heard his exclamation.
“Holy Fuck! It’s snowing!”
They needed the laugh, and they all took it. Even Tarval.
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